


Voicemails

by pristinecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dean Has Commitment Issues, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Making Up, Pining, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6298336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pristinecas/pseuds/pristinecas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's never been good at commitment. After Castiel proposes, he flees, only returning to Lawrence three years later for Sam's wedding. It only seems natural to drop by and see how his ex-fiancé is doing, but returning to his old home brings another surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voicemails

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this is the longest thing I've ever written, and definitely the longest I've ever spent on a single piece of work. I hope you enjoy these idiots and their lack of communication. Thanks to thedamwriter for reading everything I send her way.

“You have one new voicemail.”

The automated voice announced the arrival of each message, and once upon a time Dean might have ignored them. Now he found himself running to the phone, practically tripping over his own feet, pressing his ear to the receiver and soaking up each word.

 

* * *

 

_Dean looked out at the house, a duffel in each hand as the morning sun began to peek out from over the tiled roof. The air was still cold, and every breath felt like ice in his lungs. He’d said yes when Castiel proposed a day earlier, and they’d had blissful engagement sex, their bodies slick with sweat and words panted into each other’s mouths in between heated thrusts, but he felt hollow and perhaps a little bit frightened. He’d never made a commitment to anyone like he had to Cas, but the prospect of marriage frightened him beyond anything he’d experienced. It had felt like he couldn’t breathe, like every word of congratulations and talk of the future was trying to drown him in a constant reminder that he was grounded._

_And so the moment he was sure his fiancé – the word alone was too much – was asleep, he’d snuck out from under his arm and begun shoving clothes and items into bags, the strain on the zippers nearly enough for them to burst. He’d expected it to hurt something awful, but he felt almost numb as he wandered the house, picking up articles that had belonged to him before he’d moved in with Cas. He left everything they’d bought together._

_A small voice in the back of his mind told him that he was doing the right thing – that he was_ rescuing _Castiel from whatever evils and horrors came along with being around Dean. Cas was all kind words with a quiet demeanor until you got on his bad side, but Dean had never seen anything upset Cas to the point where he let his temper go. Dean wondered how Castiel would react when he woke up and noticed his absence._

_And with that, Dean lifted the trunk of the Impala, shoved his bags inside, careful to make as little noise as possible, wincing as keying the ignition caused the ancient engine to sputter to life with a sound that could’ve woken the whole neighborhood. Gravel scraped under his wheels as he pulled out of the driveway, turning a corner just as a light flicked on in the topmost window of the old house._

  

* * *

 

The first voicemail had come the day he left. It consisted mostly of questions, of asking why he was gone and when he was coming back. Dean had left it there, not deleting it but not listening again, either. He didn’t want to come crawling back. 

Dean’s resolve had crumbled after the second message, a drunken slur of syllables and the word _why_ that left Dean seated on the floor with his back against the wall and his knees wrapped in his arms, choking out dry sobs.

Now, as the phone announced the arrival of a third message, Dean raced to sit by the landline phone, dropping to his knees to be on the level of the coffee table on which the phone sat. A beep indicated the beginning of the message, and ignoring the way his joints protested against his odd sitting position, Dean listened in, eyes wide with rapt attention. 

“Hello, Dean.” Cas’s voice started the same way it always did, bringing with it a sense of familiarity. “Sam came to the house today. He asked me–” a shuddering breath, “He asked me where you are. I told him I didn’t know.” There was a pause, during which Dean felt himself drop so that he was sitting on his heels. Of course Sam would be looking for him. Son of a bitch didn’t know when a man needed to be by himself. _Well,_ he reasoned, _if it were Sam, I’d probably look too._ Dean shook his head. It didn’t matter. Sam wouldn’t find out where he was. 

“He’s worried,” Cas said, and the line crackled with a sigh from the other end. Dean buried his face in his hands, as the phone beeped a second time.

“End of voicemail.”

 

* * *

 

It had been almost three weeks. Three weeks since Dean had made his way to the California apartment. He’d bought it when Sam was at Stanford, and lived there for the four years that his brother was at college, before John’s involvement in a car crash that cost him his ability to walk – and later his life – brought them back to Lawrence. 

It had come as an unwelcome shock, at first, to hear the phone ring and know that Cas had almost immediately figured out where he’d retreated to, but the other man didn’t come looking. Dean was grateful for that, though it made him feel worse to know that he’d abandoned someone who knew him even better than his own brother. 

The place was something of a dump, though Dean had drilled the mindset that it was _his_ dump into his brain. Something within the walls constantly hummed, and Dean’s feelings toward the sound ranged from enjoying it as a lullaby of sorts to loathing it to the point where he wanted to put his fist through the wall. The walls themselves were off-white, as though they’d been painted bright, but dirtied over time. The place smelled, too. It smelled like the Chinese food that Dean was surviving off of, a perpetual scent of sweet and sour sauce. It was almost as if the place had been designed to function as a hermit’s hideaway – a place for the wayward to run. Dean wasn’t wayward, however, he was just a damn idiot. 

In the three weeks he’d been away, Dean had done a shitty job of living. His trips to the grocery store were so infrequent that he found himself living off of food that didn’t require refrigeration or rapid consumption, and he’d neglected to change the sheets in the bedroom. He’d never bothered to do the chores around the house that Castiel had done. He never thought he’d have to. He was sure that he and Cas would spend the rest of their lives together, but once faced with the prospect of it, he’d been too scared to follow through, which was how he ended up here in the first place. 

The space between the arrival of voicemails was increasing, as more time went by, and Dean found himself lost without the sound of the voice he’d once gotten to hear daily. It hurt, it hurt like a _bitch,_ but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. At this point, he didn’t even deserve to have Cas back. Cas deserved someone who wouldn’t fucking run out on him at the prospect of greater commitment. 

And so Dean sat in the Palo Alto apartment, heart heavy.

 

* * *

 

“You have two new voicemails.”

The voice roused Dean from a nap he’d been taking on the couch, and as he raised his head the imprint of the couch’s fabric was visible on one side. He was scruffy, too, having shaved only once or twice in the month he’d been away. 

He was no better at taking care of himself as he was the apartment, but he tried – and failed – to at least keep himself marginally presentable for the rare occasion that he did have to step outside the double-locked door and smell the roses. One could say that he was sulking, almost like a two year old in the way that he shut himself in and refused to let anyone past his walls, both literal and metaphorical. It was true, Dean felt sulky, and he wished nothing more than to be allowed to brood in peace.

Still, he was alone, and nobody had been able to find him. Or, perhaps, they knew exactly where he was, but couldn’t be bothered to make the trip out to the coast. It was far from Kansas, which was exactly what Dean had picked it for, but it now felt too far, too distant from everything he knew and loved. The people he knew and loved. 

Running a hand over his face, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch, and the springs squeaked as he stood. Still half asleep, he stumbled over to the phone, which had just finished ringing for the second time that day. 

He never picked up the phone. He just let it go to voicemail every single time.

His hands found the phone, and his fingers traced over the buttons before pressing the one that would play him the voice that was simultaneously sweet music and nails against a chalkboard in the way that it made him feel. Truly _feel._

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, voice muffled, and it sounded like he was shifting around, busied by something. “I, uh,”

Dean frowned as the sound of Cas’s name being called could be heard in the background of the call, accompanied by a reply that barely leaked past the hand that Dean was sure had been placed over the transmitter. Then the audio stopped, and he realized that Cas had hung up the phone at that point. The silence that followed didn’t last very long, however, leaving Dean no time to dwell on the strange little message as the next voicemail started up.

“Hello again, Dean.” There was no background noise this time, and Dean guessed that Cas had moved to a quieter location. “I’m just calling to say that this will be my last message,” he said, voice cracking slightly on the word _last,_ and it hung in the air, still and stagnant. It ran through Dean’s veins, and seeped into his bones, polluting his mind, _last, last, last, lastlastlastlast._

“I guess this is goodbye, for me, at least. So goodbye, Dean. I wish you the best.” A click, and then the dial tone cut through the silence that Castiel had left. Dean didn’t move a muscle, just sat slumped on the floor, jaw slack and eyes wide. The one piece of Cas that he’d had to cling on to was gone, and he was – for the first time since he had left – well and truly alone. 

“End of voicemail.”

 

* * *

 

Dean set the bags of groceries on the ground, standing in front of the apartment door, bending down to collect the short stack of letters that sat at his feet. There were two – no, three – letters, and Dean held them in one hand as he looped his arms through the handles of the grocery bags, standing upright and making his way into the kitchen, where he set the bags on the counter.

He returned his attention to the letters, propping his elbows up on the kitchen island as he rifled through them. The first was something from the bank, which he dreaded opening. He tossed that one from the top of the pile onto the island’s surface, glancing down at the second letter.

This one was some bullshit community gathering invitation, probably dropped off at every doorstep in the entire building. He knew exactly what it was at first glance, just looking at the return address, recognizing the name of the woman who sent out the letters constantly. Living in the apartment for almost three years meant that he was accustomed to the life he was now leading. 

He’d made a life for himself in Palo Alto, however different it was from the world he was used to seeing daily. The first year had been rough, as Dean got used to life alone, wasting his cash on alcohol and betting on bar-side pool games. He cleaned up his act a lot during the second year, getting himself a job at a local mechanic. Then, three months ago, he’d received a call from Sam, which had shocked him into silence, as his brother explained that Cas’d caved and told him where he was after months of pleading. Dean was convinced that if Sam had ever figured or found out where he’d been hiding out he would receive a personal visit from him, but was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t ever need to open his front door to the sight of another person he’d let down.

Dean snorted to himself, crumpled up the letter, and aiming straight for the trash can tossed the letter-ball, smirking when it landed among the rest of the garbage with a satisfying crunch. With that he took a look at the last letter. He was prepared to trash it like he did the last one, when instead, looking at the return address brought a surprise. It left Dean with his eyebrows raised, skeptical.

_Sam._

It was a fancy looking letter, Dean thought, as he stuck his thumb under a corner of the sealed envelope, tearing it open as he ran it across. He made quick work of pulling the card out, opening it with haste, eyes scanning the curlicue font scrawled across the center of the paper.

_Please join us for the wedding of Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore._

Dean’s jaw dropped, eyes widened. He read over the rest of the invitation, panic rising in him when he saw that they were going to get married in Lawrence. The realization that attendance would require a return visit to the place he’d abandoned years ago sank in slowly, Dean’s nerves building. It was almost as if two sides of him sat on each shoulder, one screaming in his ear that he simply could not return to his hometown, the other reminding him that he couldn’t miss his younger brother’s wedding for the world. 

He had until October to make up his mind. It was mid-September, and Dean cringed, knowing that the late timing of the arrival of his invitation meant that they’d probably debated inviting him in the first place. 

But he had until October, and as he slipped the card back into the ripped envelope, he made a mental note to scribble something on the calendar.

 

* * *

 

Never let it be said that Dean was a light packer. The duffel in the backseat of the Impala would protest, seeing as the bag was bulging from the combined force of what seemed like every article of clothing Dean owned inside of it. He was going back to Lawrence for the first time in three years. He was going to see the people he’d left behind, and hell if he wasn’t going to do his best to be prepared. 

He gripped the steering wheel of the car with more force than was necessary, watching the green signs mocking him with constant reminders that Lawrence was only miles away as they sped by through the windshield. 

He’d been driving for a few days, taking the 30 hour trip in increments, staying the night in sleazy motels with dirty walls and a constant stench of OxiClean. It wasn’t as if he’d gotten much sleep, however, simply tossing and turning for hours on end, brow glistening with sweat in the dim light from the neon signs broadcasting the motel’s availability. His hands fisted the sheets, night after night, as he wobbled on the edge of the waking world and the unconscious one. His dreams were haunted by familiar eyes, and he found himself lured into old habits of grappling for someone on the other side of the bed.

The road was a more peaceful place, where he didn’t have to worry about dreams or nightmares or anything in between. The only thing that brought him back to reality was the sign advertising the exit he’d need to take, the big white arrow taunting him as though to say _you’re so close to the place you left._ He flipped his turn signal on a little harsher than he probably needed to, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder before moving into the right lane. It wasn’t as if anybody else was going to Lawrence at the crack of dawn. 

The sun was just barely making its way over the horizon, and some masochistic part of his brain reminded him that it was just about the same time that he had last been in the city. He’d come full circle, albeit after quite a long time. 

He pulled off onto local roads eventually, the clouds tinged gold with the peak of morning. He barely appreciated the beauty of it, however, his thoughts perpetually preoccupied by a scene of Castiel opening the door to see Dean, his face ranging from aghast to relieved. It changed every time the timeline played out across Dean’s mind. In his imagination, the house was exactly the same, as if he were a child who’d done nothing but stand up from a game he’d been playing, left to stay exactly as it was for the duration of his absence. Stagnant. Inanimate. 

Dean didn’t even bother to turn on the radio as he drove the miles to the hotel Sam had made a reservation at for him, one he’d driven past several times, but the musty walls of which he never thought he’d have to stay within. It was a little place, a precise replica of the thousands that littered the country, and Dean gave the woman at the front desk a flirty grin – just the way he was used to doing – before he caught himself. 

The room itself was small, and from Dean’s sitting position up against the headboard he could see his reflection in the mirror across from him. He looked as exhausted as he felt, and hoped that by the time he went through with his plans the next day he would look a little more presentable.

He dreamed of blue eyes and a warm embrace. 

 

* * *

 

Knocking on Sam’s door had taken a lot more courage than Dean thought he could muster, but he’d done it, and there was no turning back. The sound of his three raps against the wood echoed in his ears, as he rocked back and forth on his heels, the sun beating down his back, adding to the nervous sweat already breaking out over his skin, underneath his t-shirt. 

Panic had already begun its course through his veins, and he glanced over his shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time in the space of a few seconds, as though Sam would approach him from behind. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. He couldn’t disappear for three years and show up on his brother’s doorstep just like that. No sane human being would do that. Then again, when had his life ever been normal? 

The sound of the lock on the door clicking made Dean jump, his twitchiness a result of the course of action he was following. The handle turned, and Dean watched it, as though it were in slow motion, just as the door opened to reveal Sam Winchester, who’d gone still and stiff at the sight of his older brother. At this point, Dean was practically shaking.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said, trying a smile that came out more like a grimace. Sam was still frozen, eyes wide, lips parted, his stare not wavering from Dean’s face, as though if he blinked or shifted his gaze the other man would disappear.

“Sam, who’s at the door?” A woman’s voice came from within the house, and it seemed to snap Sam out of whatever thought he’d been stuck in.

“Dean,” he said, just soft enough that it could still be heard by the woman inside – who Dean guessed was Jessica Moore – as there was the sound of footsteps before a second face joined Sam’s. A soft face, framed by blonde hair, glossy lips open in an ‘o’ of shock. This must be Jessica, Dean thought, and managed to raise a hand in something like a wave. 

The couple looked at each other, and something like understanding passed between them, before Jessica turned and went inside, Sam holding the door open wider.

“Come in,” he said, voice still airy with the surprise of Dean’s arrival. Dean nodded, stepping over the threshold after Sam, taking in his surroundings as he did. It was a nice little place, with walls painted a soft blue, pictures decorating the walls. Dean’s spirits sunk a little as he noticed the absence of his face among all the others. He’d neglected to think about the way that his absence must have affected his brother. What was he now, the town outcast? The one who ran away? 

Sam and Jessica had taken seats on the living room couch by the time Dean made it through the hallway, and he took the liberty of joining them by taking up an armchair that forced him to face their expressions of something bordering on pity. That was it, Dean was sure of it. They pitied him.

“Congratulations,” Dean said, and he internally reprimanded himself for not being able to control his mouth. He let his self-chastising rest, however, when he saw the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of Sam’s mouth.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said, reaching a hand over to clasp Jessica’s. Dean’s remained folded in his lap. 

“I wanted to say thanks, y’know,” Dean said, his knee bouncing. It was a nervous habit. And hell, was he nervous. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Of course, Dean,” Jessica said, voice soft, eyes softer. Sam, however, had dropped his head so that he was looking at the floor. It occurred to Dean that perhaps Sam had avoided sending him an invitation, only to be prompted by Jessica. She seemed the ‘but he’s your brother’ type. Secretly, Dean was grateful. He couldn’t blame Sam, however. Dropping off the face of the earth was a pretty clear message saying “don’t talk to me.”

It was silent for a moment, before Jessica cleared her throat and spoke.

“So, Dean, how’s Palo Alto?” It was a strangely comfortable question, as though the apartment hadn’t been a place of refuge and was instead a vacation home.

“Good,” Dean coughed out, allowing himself to sit up a little straighter. “Hot, but good.”

“Not really that different from here, though, is it?” Sam said, finally lifting his eyes from his lap. Dean laughed.

“Nah, I guess not.”

The three of them fell into a comfortable rhythm, and Dean glowed from within, his worry dissipated. It wasn’t until a few hours later that he stood up to leave and made his way back to the Impala, and began the drive to his– their– _Cas’s_ house, the joy that had made its way into his system sinking into something darker once more.

 

* * *

 

Flowers. That was the first thing that registered in Dean’s brain. Flowers. He could see them from his spot at the end of the street.

He’d parked the Impala far from the house, because he knew that driving up to the curb right in front would attract Cas’s attention. That wouldn’t do. Dean wanted – or needed, perhaps both – to knock on the door, the same way he’d done in dream after dream. 

So there he was, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car at the end of the street, staring at the house he’d once known, except now there were flowers planted out front. He didn’t know the names of any of them, but was sure as hell that Cas did. He’d always had a thing for flowers and bees. Oh God, the _bees._ Non-stop bees. Cas’d begged Dean to let him plant flowers, but Dean had always refused, even when his boyfriend had brought out the puppy dog eyes and told him that bees were dying. If Dean’d needed proof that Cas was happier with him gone, this was it. Stupid fucking flowers. 

Dean checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, keeping it angled towards him with one hand while he ran the other through his hair, giving it a little ruffle. He looked okay, and okay was probably as good as it was going to get. 

He pushed the door of the Impala open, stepping out and closing the door as quietly as possible. He walked down the sidewalk, passing house after house that he’d known so well. There were subtle differences, and Dean wondered ifs everyone who’d lived there three years ago had stayed. He breathed through his nose, inhaling the scent of the air, the sweet earthy smell that he could never find in the city. He watched shadows from the trees dance on the sidewalk, which calmed his nerves considerably. His tension was strung higher than it had been when he’d gone to talk to Sam, because this was _Cas._ Sweet, beautiful Cas, who deserved nothing but the best.

Approaching the front steps, Dean scanned the house once over, his heart beating a tattoo against his chest. He walked up to the door. Took a deep breath, and knocked. Once, twice, three times. The silence that followed was heavy, as Dean waited for any sign of movement. Anything. He could faintly hear rustling inside the house, and it made his heart skip a beat, knowing that Cas was so close.

There was a click as the door was unlocked, and pushed open.

Castiel.

Dean watched as Cas’s eyes widened, and his jaw fell open slightly. His hair was tussled, as though Dean had waken him from a nap, and he was dressed in a ratty t-shirt... one of Dean’s old ones.

They stood in silence for a moment, simply looking into each other's eyes. Dean tried to identify the emotion in those baby blues, but it was like looking into a mirror. All he saw was the same thing he knew was visible in his own eyes: anticipation, and something bordering on fear. The quiet hung between them for several seconds, and it was so heavy that it seemed to drown out the sound of passing cars and birds. Castiel spoke first.

“Dean.” It wasn’t so much a word as it was a breath, an exhale with a name on its tail. His name tumbled from Cas’s lips, and it was bittersweet, for it was the first time Dean had heard it in far too long. Years.

The illusion of the world’s stillness around the two of them broke as fast as it had come.

“Daddy?” Dean watched Cas turn his head, as a boy who looked not a day over two years old waddled towards the doorway, wrapping his little arms around Castiel’s leg. Dean felt something inside him go numb. The boy had light eyes, sandy hair, and a brush of freckles across his skin: a splitting image of a Dean from the past. Dean knew he was gaping as he watched Cas bend down, running a hand through the boy’s hair.

“Go back inside, John. I will come in a minute,” he said, and the boy, John, did as he was told, just as Dean’s stomach turned and Cas stood back up to face him.

“H-his name is John?” Dean said, barely managing the words. Castiel crossed his arms, hunching in on himself, choosing to look at the ground rather than meet Dean’s eyes. “Cas,” Dean said, voice breathless, almost awed, “is– is that my kid? Is that my son?” The thought itself crashed around in Dean’s brain, and his breath hitched as Cas moved his head.

An infinitesimal nod. 

Dean led out a shuddering breath.

“I want to see him.”

Cas’s eyes darted back up too squint at him. Behind his stare, however, Dean saw the beginnings of the anger he’d feared beginning to boil. All of a sudden, Castiel was in his personal space, looking up at him with ferocity.

“You think you can show up now, after three years. _Three years,_ Dean! You think you can show up now and things will be okay?” 

“That’s my kid!” Dean shot back, and he could see Cas gritting his teeth, as though there were a thousand things he wanted to scream, to shout, yet he was stoic as ever when he responded.

“He may be your son, Dean, but you’re hardly his father.” It was a low blow, and it was like Cas had taken a knife and run it through Dean’s chest. He wanted to say something cruel back, before his brain reminded him that he was the one at fault. So instead of glaring back at his ex-fiancé, he sighed and dropped his face into his hands. Out of every scenario he’d dreamt or pictured, this had never happened. He’d thought they’d been careful.

He’d always wanted a family with the other man, but never thought that it would come about like this. He had a living, breathing son, a child that took after him. Would he share Dean’s music taste, or perhaps a passion for cars? Would he inherit Cas’s love for nature?

Cas, who seemed to soften a bit at the sight of Dean’s broken façade, stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him. Dean didn’t lift his head, even when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Even through Dean’s jacket, the touch was warm.

“Why are you here, Dean?” Castiel asked, and Dean became very aware of the lump in his throat. When he finally chanced a look at Cas’s face, he expected to find the same pissed-off expression, but instead saw something close to pity. Dean wanted to wipe at his eyes, just incase the waterworks started, but didn’t want to expose the vulnerability he was feeling. He resorted to leaving them be, offering a shrug in response to Cas’s question.

“Sam’s getting married. I was in town,” he said, and quickly added, “I missed you,” seeing the look on Cas’s face. Cas simply snorted.

“You had three years to call, or text, or send an e-mail.”

“I know, I know, and I’m sorry,” Dean said, his voice bordering on a plead.

“That’s not going to cut it,” Cas said, and Dean felt something inside him shatter. Every hope of a second chance, every thought that maybe things would work out between the two of them. Everything that could’ve gone wrong in that moment was going wrong, and every apology speech Dean had lined up in his mind had been wiped clean. 

“Please,” he said, in one final attempt. “Lemme explain myself.” He could see Cas thinking it over, could almost hear the gears grinding in his head. He tried not to feel wounded that it was such a difficult decision for Cas. He repeated a mantra, _this is your fault, this is your fault,_ in his head. _You did this. Your fault. You did this._

“Daddy!” The squeal came from within the house, and Cas looked over his shoulder at the door, then back at Dean, who had his hands clasped in front of his chest, a silent prayer to the angel of a man that was Castiel. He wondered if Castiel could read his face, read every line of worry that he’d gathered in his time away.

He saw something within Cas crumble, as his shoulders became less rigid, and he ran a hand through his hair, further mussing it up.

“Fine. Fine, you can see him,” he said, like a dam breaking, and hell, Dean wanted to take him into his arms and hold him to his chest for hours. At the very least, he wanted to be able to take his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, but he knew he’d lost that privilege the minute he’d walked out that door. 

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean said, voice breathless. Cas moved to open the door, but Dean stepped forward. “Really, Cas, I’m sorry–” Cas put a hand on his chest to stop him, and Dean ignores the heat that prickles under his skin at the touch.

“We’ll talk later, Dean. We will, but I don’t want John to think that anything’s wrong.” Dean nodded. He understood what Cas meant, for he was after all once fluent in the man himself. _I’ll yell at you when my son’s asleep, but right now he’s not, and you’re a strange man to him._

Dean tried not to let nostalgia and something close to homesickness overwhelm him as he followed Cas back into the house, looking over the same walls, the same furniture, the same halls that lead to the same rooms. The floor still creaked under his feet, a protest against his heavy footing, and the entryway light flickered and winked a greeting, just as it always had. There were a few slight changes: the new pictures of John – which Dean almost stopped in his tracks to stare at – on the walls, most adorned in painted wooden frames, though a select few appeared to have been thumb-tacked to the wall in a way that suggested a hurried hanging. There were a few house plants that certainly hadn’t been there before, and the sudden appearance of a very furry, very orange cat at his feet. Dean nearly tripped over the damn animal, letting out a squeak that he would never admit to later. When he gave Castiel a look, aiming the best death glare he had at the other man, Cas shrugged.

“The obstetrician said that having a pet would reduce the likelihood of the development of allergies to that animal in an infant,” he told Dean, who just raised an eyebrow, still not toning down what he hoped was a lethal gaze. Cas rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, and for just a split second it felt like their old banter. 

Dean made his way to the kitchen, following Castiel, his legs carrying him along the path he’d treaded so many times. The kitchen was exactly the same, all of Dean’s cooking utensils looking untouched. He wondered what Cas’d been feeding himself and John all this time if he wasn’t cooking.

“Do you want something to drink?” Cas asked him, and Dean shook his head.

“Nah, ‘s alright.”

“Alright.” Cas poured himself a glass of water, Dean watching the way his fingers wrapped around the handle of the pitcher, the way his muscles rippled when he lifted it. When the glass was handed to him, he cast Cas a grateful smile, and the one he received in return seemed a little bit forced. “Do you want to come into the living room, then?” Cas asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said, and let himself be led into a room the location of which he already knew by heart. There were subtle changes, and Dean’s eyes went straight to the mantle above the fireplace. His heart sunk when he noticed that the photo of him and Cas that had once held a place there had been removed, leaving the ledge bare. He couldn’t blame the other man, however. A nagging part of him told Dean that he would’ve done the same thing. The rest of the living room was more of the same, but little things made the presence of a child in the house noticeable. The outlets were baby-proofed, there was a pacifier sitting on the sofa’s side table, and toy trucks lay haphazardly on the floor.

He sat himself on the couch, as Cas sat on the opposite end. Dean reached across his knees towards the coffee table, where he slid a cork coaster over to Castiel’s side, earning himself a nod and almost-smile. Dean lifted his eyes from the table, noticing finally the boy clinging to the edge of the doorframe. John had a cautious look about him, his stance projecting a defensive manner. His face was scrunched up in confusion, as he looked first at Dean, then at Cas.

“John,” Cas said, beckoning for John to approach them. He did, gently pushing away from the doorway and waddling towards them on legs that had yet to loose their baby fat. He made his way around the coffee table, latching onto Cas’s shin again. His eyes remained on Dean however, and Dean felt scrutinized under the curious eyes of the toddler. Cas ran a hand through the wispy blonde hair on his head, and his eyes finally flitted up to Castiel.

“John, this is Dean. He’s a friend of Daddy’s,” Cas said, and though it didn’t quite feel right, didn’t sit well in the air, hung unpleasant and full of hidden meaning and falsehood, John took it.

“Dean,” he repeated, practically glowing with pride, his chest puffed out and cheeks pink. He proceeded to scamper away for a moment, collapsing to his knees on the carpet, and both men watched with rapt attention. Cas to make sure John wasn’t up to anything, and Dean soaking in every detail of his son that he’d missed. Every little movement of grabby fingers, the tilt of the head that he had most certainly inherited from his other father. John jumped up after a few seconds, teetering on his feet, bearing his teeth in an earsplitting grin. In two hands he held a matchbox car, which he carried back to the couch.

“Car,” John told Dean, walking straight past Cas and over to Dean, holding the car up in one fist.

“Y-yeah,” Dean said, his voice strangled, “that’s a nice car you got there, buddy.”

“Car!” There was so much glee in the word that it made Dean smile, as John began to run the wheels of the car up and down Dean’s leg. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a horrified expression spread over Cas’s face, and he opened his mouth to say something. _It’s fine,_ Dean mouthed to Cas, who clamped his jaw shut and reserved to watching the exchange between Dean and John, who was now making noises to go with the car’s movements on its denim road. 

“You like cars, huh?” Dean asked, earning a very enthusiastic nod from John.

“I like cars be-because they can do t-this,” he said, stumbling over the long sentence, and demonstrating a flip with his toy that would have rendered any normal car a pile of scrap metal. Dean chuckled in spite of himself, and when he glanced over at Cas he saw the way the man smiled with his eyes, the way they glowed with the sunlight coming through the window. Dean took him in, really took him in, eyes skimming over the bow of his lips, the tip of his nose, the messy hair, every dip and curve of his body. The jeans that hugged his thighs and the muscle that lined them, the shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, the way he clasped his hands in his lap as he sat.

Dean could almost forget the way that the plastic wheels of a tiny car were rolling over his arm now, as John was clambering on top of the couch to stand up, still imitating the engine of a car, Dean’s shoulders becoming a highway, the boy standing just behind him. 

“John, we don’t stand on furniture,” Cas said, chastising, and John obediently hopped down, resigning to play on the floor. Cas cast Dean another apologetic look, and Dean’s heart flipped. This was exactly the kind of life he’d missed out on. He’d give anything to go back. Just to go back to before it all, before the panic and the fear, before the looming, inescapable word _commitment_ had been dangled over his head. Perhaps commitment was exactly what he’d needed, what he’d wanted. 

They sat in silence. All three of them, the only noise the occasional shift in position. They both watched John, who was unaware of both of his parents watching him intently, as well as the tension of the situation, which hung between Dean and Cas like a ball and chain, but seemed to float right over the toddler’s head.

 

* * *

 

It was what seemed like hours before they got up, Cas walking back into the kitchen, Dean following behind him.

“I can call Joanna Beth to babysit. We can catch up,” Cas said, and Dean grinned at the thought.

“Jo babysits? Huh. Never thought she had it in her.” Cas nodded, picking the house phone up from the countertop, and pressing digits into the pad, listening to it ring. 

“Hello? It’s Castiel. Yes. No, quite the contrary.” A pause. “Precisely. Yes. Seven it is. Goodbye.”

“Brief conversation,” Dean remarked, as the other man put the phone down.

“Joanna was very kind. She said she’ll come at seven o’clock.” Dean glanced down at his watch. 6:42. Eighteen minutes until his date with Cas. No, Dean thought, not a date, just catching up. Just catching up, and that’s _it._

They waited in silence.

Jo was true to her word, and a knock on the door at 6:58 told them that she was right outside. Cas looked over at Dean, who promptly realized that this wouldn’t be the best way to show that he was back in town.

“I’ll be in the garage,” Dean said, and Cas nodded, understanding the plan. Dean would go through the door to the garage, wait there for Cas, and once Jo was situated they would head out.

“Go now,” Cas said, and Dean did as he was told, making his way through the kitchen and over to the back door. He turned the handle and pushed, but the door didn’t budge. Dean gripped the handle tighter, frowning, giving it another sharp push. Nothing. He jiggled the handle and tried again, slowly becoming increasingly frustrated with the door. The frantic sense of panic began when he heard Jo’s voice ringing from where she stood in the kitchen. Broken fragments of words and sentences floated through the hall, growing louder, and Dean was still yanking and shoving the door in his attempt to get it to open.

Cas’s head poked around the corner, and Dean shot him a look, all wide eyes and clenched jaw. Cas mimed turning a door handle while pushing at the same time, and Dean mimicked his action, to find that the door swung open to reveal the dark interior of the garage. Dean didn’t know when the door had started doing that, for it certainly hadn’t when he’d lived there. 

He stepped into the garage, closing the door behind him just in time to hear Jo’s voice loud and clear. It was pitch black without the light from the hall, and he fumbled in the dark for the light switch on the wall. When his fingers met an abrasion on the surface, he flicked it, and the dim garage light sputtered to life. A soft glow spread over the small room, just big enough for one car. It had been home to the Impala, once, before it had traveled with Dean cross country. 

The first change Dean noticed was the lack of an empty space that the Impala should’ve left. There was a car in the garage. Dean frowned. Cas never drove, Dean always did. But there was a ’75 Lincoln Continental in a hideous tan color seated right where Baby should be. There was a tricycle, too, just behind the car, with streamers on the handlebars. Dean noticed that all of his old tools were still on the shelves that lined the back wall, as untouched as they were. It was almost as if nothing had changed at all, as if it had been that way forever. 

Dean stood in silent reverence for what felt like hours, turning in circles, head titled back to take in each and every portion of his surroundings. When Castiel finally opened the door and stepped in himself, Dean turned his head, body jerking slightly and tips of his ears going red as if he’d been caught doing something naughty. It almost felt as though he had, in the way that he regarded the life that Cas’d built for himself with such reverence. 

“Are you ready to go, Dean?” Cas asked, and Dean found himself nodding, Cas opening the garage door with the press of a button on the wall.

“I call shotgun,” Dean said, and the joke was a poor attempt to alleviate the tension in the air between them. Cas cast him a weak smile, however, and it made Dean’s heart soar. Dean walked around the car, being careful not to trip over the tricycle as he did. From there he pulled the door open, pulling himself into the car. Cas did the same, situating himself behind the wheel. 

“The Roadhouse is ordinarily busy at this time of day. It’s likely that we would be able to get in without your presence causing too much of a commotion,” Cas suggested, and Dean nodded.

“Sounds good. Jo’s the only one who’d care that much, anyway, and she’s here, so....” Dean trailed off, and Cas nodded, frowning ever so slightly.

“Roadhouse it is.”

 

* * *

 

Cas had been right. The place was _packed._ Cas had gone in first, though it was practically unnecessary considering the way that the sound of the commotion within bled through the walls into the outside air. Dean had cast Cas a glance even before they left the car, silently asking him whether or not their plan was really such a good idea. Cas had just nodded softly, however, before opening his door and stepping out.

Now, inside, the Roadhouse, Dean noticed the plethora of new faces. The Roadhouse had always been _his_ spot, and later his and Cas' spot. Now it was teeming with twenty-something-year-olds, dressed in colorful boat shorts and shirts decorated with phrases Dean had never even heard. Cas didn’t give Dean much time to be nostalgic, grabbing him by the wrist – which certainly did not send sparks shooting up his arm – and dragging him to the furthest corner booth. He practically shoved Dean onto one side, before joining him, their shoulders and thighs pressed up against each other.

“What are you doing?” Dean spluttered, just as Cas slung an arm over his shoulders.

“If they think we’re on a date, they’ll leave us alone,” he said, and Dean tried to focus on his words more than the way it felt to be back in Cas’s arms. 

“Alright, alright, just don’t get handsy, Casanova,” Dean said, trying not to be relieved when Cas’s grip didn’t loosen. It tightened, even, as a waitress Dean had never seen approached their table, a bounce in her step that looked so sickeningly infectious that it made Dean afraid of contracting it. 

“Hi! I’m Becky, I’ll be your waitress today. What can I get you two to start?” 

Some peace and quiet, Dean thought.

“Two double-bacon cheeseburgers, please, and two beers. Whatever’s on tap.” Becky nodded, jotting down the order on her notepad. She was gone soon enough, and Dean leaned closer to Cas.

“Think she had enough coffee this morning?” he whispered in Cas’s ear, and heard the other man huff in amusement. It was quiet for a moment, and neither of them dared to speak before the chatter of the surrounding crowed started up again.

“Cas,” Dean started, but was interrupted.

“I understand, Dean. You were never compelled to stay. I just– I wish you’d left a note, or returned one of my calls, at the very least.” Had they not been sitting pressed up against one another already, Dean would’ve shifted closer.

“Those voicemails were the best part of my day. Hell, my weeks, _months._ But they just stopped coming, and I guessed that you’d given up hope in me. In us.” Dean winced at how pathetic he sounded.

“I stopped when I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t want to say that over the phone. I thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d make your way back to us. I guess I was right, though I will say you’re a bit later than I thought you would be,” Cas said. Dean turned to face him, Cas’s arm sliding off his shoulder in the process. Dean looked him in the eyes, really looked, and he saw a man who he had promised he would do right by. A man he had let down.

“Cas, why didn’t you tell me? You know I would’ve come back. I would’ve,” Dean said, practically pleading. Something new broke out over Cas’s face, something unreadable by Dean.

“That's exactly what I didn't want! I don't want to be one of those couples who stay together for the baby's sake. I don't want a relationship because you feel obligated,” he hissed, and Dean recoiled, in awed fear of the change in tone from Castiel. Cas’s face softened, and he clasped one of Dean’s hands in his own. “I loved you, and it hurt like hell when you were gone. But I made a life for myself.”

“You’re saying I should never have come back,” Dean said, feeling a little like he’d been slapped. Cas sighed, shaking his head.

“No, Dean, will you just listen to me?” Dean shut his mouth, which he had opened, about to say something in response, and gave the hand in his a squeeze. “Everything changed after you left. Not just because of John, though that caused a multitude of complications. I found that earning money and being a single parent wasn’t a combination that went well. Sam was extremely helpful in making sure that I was situated. I took paid leave during my pregnancy, but after that I needed to work. Joanna Beth volunteered to watch John when she could.” Cas paused, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “You had gone, and everything was different. I found myself slipping, and I saw it in the people around me, too. Did you even think about the impact your absence would have on everybody you ever knew, Dean?” Dean could do nothing but shake his head silently.

“I was stupid. Selfish and stupid,” he said, and Cas finally looked up, and Dean’s blood felt cold in his veins when he saw the unshed tears there. 

“Did you even want to be with me, Dean?” Cas asked, voice small and afraid, as though the answer was something that would come up and attack him, so different from the firm anger it had held only moments before. Dean frowned, tracing over Cas’s knuckles with a thumb.

“I wanted it. Hell, Cas, I would've given anything. But just the idea of it, the ring, the wedding, the whole nine – it pushed me over the edge. I ran out. I was a coward, and I ran out." Dean didn’t move away when he felt Cas’s thumb over his cheekbone, brushing away a tear he didn’t know was there. It seemed that once he started talking, every insecurity he’d had flowed like a dam breaking. “I would’ve come back on my own, but the minute I started thinking about it all I could think about was how much I’d hurt you. You don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who can make you happy, somebody who’s not afraid of staying.” He paused, gathering a breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though it was practically drowned out by the whoop of one of the others crowding the Roadhouse. Though it wasn’t directed at them, it was a reminder that they were in a public place. Dean felt the need to crawl under the table, humiliation taking up space in his lungs alongside the air in the room, which felt considerably thicker. 

“I know. I understand,” Cas said, not moving the hand that had come up to cup Dean’s face. “You did what you needed to. I can’t say I’m not angry, or sad, or scared of what comes next. But I will do what I can do.”Dean nodded, and looked into Cas’s eyes for any trace of hostility before bringing his arms up to wrap around the other man’s neck.

“Thank you. I don’t deserve one fucking bit of this, but thank you,” Dean said, and after a moment of initial stiffness, Cas returned the hug, clumsily draping an arm over Dean’s neck, and the other near the small of his back. Dean wanted to sing, to fall asleep, and to cry all at once, wrapped in the embrace of arms he hadn’t felt in years. It was heaven, and simultaneously hell, for he knew that in a moment it would be over.

Sure enough, Cas drew away as they heard footsteps, and the clatter of plates being set on the table. Dean lifted his eyes to rest on Becky, who was looking positively ecstatic at the sight of their public display of affection.

“Enjoy your food, guys,” she chirped, before scurrying off.

Dean scooted over a bit, giving Cas some leg room, before pulling one of the two cheeseburgers to his side of the table. 

“Fuck, I missed this,” Dean said, picking up the burger in both hands and looking at it with eyes as hungry as his stomach. Cas cast him a small smile. Dean grinned back before taking a large bite of the burger, closing his eyes as he did and letting out a moan worthy of a porn star. “Fuuuck.”

“Do you two need a moment alone?” Cas said, amusement seeping into his tone, and Dean pulled a hand from his burger to give Cas a whack on the arm. 

“Shuddup,” Dean said around a mouthful of burger, and Cas let out a snicker, digging into his own meal. “Besides,” he continued, “I’m not the only one who loves a good burger. You used to be able to eat three in one sitting, you remember? And I thought I could beat you, which was stupid as hell, because you out-ate me in a matter of minutes.”

Cas threw his head back in a laugh that went through his whole body, and stirred something in Dean that he’d though he’d never be able to feel again. It made him laugh, too, and they were both laughing, and it was bliss. They were _happy._ It was the kind of happiness Dean had pined over for three years, the kind he hadn’t allowed himself to have.

It was a relief, really, the sudden change from their somber demeanor to the playfulness that felt so normal between them. Dean hadn’t wanted their reunion to be something forced, something where the conversation was drier than winter air. 

When they’d calmed, and each taken a few more bites of their meals, Dean cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

“So,” he said, capturing Cas’s attention again. “Could you... um... could you tell me about John?” Dean saw Cas’s eyes widen a bit, before he smiled, setting his burger down and wiping his hands on his jeans – a habit that still had the ability to make Dean cringe.

“Of course. Did you have something particular in mind?” he asked, and Dean shook his head a bit. “Well, he attends the local preschool. He excels in class activities, according to his instructor, and seems to have an affinity for art.”

“Ha,” Dean snorted, “that certainly didn’t come from me.”

“He does enjoy cars, though, as I’m sure you noticed,” Cas said, and Dean chuckled at the thought.

“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?” he said, drumming his fingers on his knee, and Cas nodded.

“He’s very much like you. He was born with blue eyes. Blue like mine. But when he got older, they turned green. He's a splitting image of you." Dean nodded, eyes set on a spot just over Cas’s shoulder.

“He is, isn’t he? He’s even got....” Dean gestured to the bridge of his nose, indicating the smattering of freckles there. Cas chuckled, nodding gently, eyes on a spot somewhere over Dean’s shoulder. 

“He doesn’t speak too much yet, but when he talks it’s often about his cars. That, or flowers.” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, yeah?” Cas hummed, nodding gently. “Huh,” Dean said, “I guess it’s good you got some of those, then.” Dean was feeling a lot more guilt over fucking _flowers_ than he’d planned on feeling in his entire life. “Sorry I never let you–”

He was cut off by a wave of Castiel’s hand, the other man gazing at the wall as though reading words no one else could see. 

“It’s alright, Dean. Besides, there’s no point in apologizing for something that I’m sure we both put behind us so long ago.” 

“I’m just happy that you and John have a good life. It’s good,” Dean said, and after a pause nudged Cas’s shoulder, nodding towards their plates. “Eat your burger.”

 

* * *

 

The drive back was quiet, except for the faint sounds of the radio, playing a pop song Dean’d maybe heard in the grocery store once, and he couldn’t stop himself from tapping his foot a little, smiling when he saw the way Cas’s fingers did a dance of their own on the steering wheel. Dean looked out of the window when he wasn’t watching Cas, instead turning his head to see the blur of their surroundings speed past, leaving glimpses of a world he once knew, darkened with the evening. The sun had set, but wisps of pink sky were still visible – if only barely – above the trees.

When they did arrive back at the house, Dean saw that the upstairs lights were off, and guessed that Jo had put John to bed. Cas pulled into the driveway, stopping the car before turning in his seat to face Dean, his expression pensive.

“Dean, you don’t have to,” he said, and there was a small crease between his eyebrows as he scrutinized Dean’s face for any sign of discomfort. Dean shook his head, glancing back at the house. 

“I want to,” he told Cas, still watching the windows, the curtains covering which were just thin enough to provide him with a glimpse of Jo, all grown up, no longer a girl of 18, now instead a young woman. She sat on the couch, book in hand, taking a moment to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Dean smiled at the gesture, something that certainly hadn’t changed since he last knew her. 

“If you’re sure,” said Cas, before opening the car door and stepping out. Dean copied the movement, and the chill night air felt good against his skin, a breeze soothing on his face. He didn’t bother putting his jacket back on – he had taken it off when they’d entered the Roadhouse – and resorted to instead just draping it over his arm. When he saw Cas’s little shudder, however, he lifted it by the corner, holding it in both hands and pulling it over the other man’s shoulders. Cas craned his neck to look up at him, eyes a little wide, and Dean panicked, worried that he’d crossed a line, before the corners of Cas’s mouth turned up in a small smile. Dean copied the expression, putting a hand on either shoulder and practically leading Cas onto his own doorstep. This was the point in a real date that he would turn Cas to face him, before kissing him softly, a gentle press of lips, a sweet goodnight – but Cas simply pulled a key out of the pocket of his jeans, unlocking the door, and knocking a few times before pushing it open, exposing the doorstep to the low glow of the hall lights. 

Dean could hear the rustle as Jo stood up from the couch, presumably closing her book, and the _patpatpat_ of her feet on the hardwood as she made her way to the entryway.

Dean was sure the way he was cowering behind Castiel was comical, like the man was a shield that would surely protect him from the fiery ball of wrath that was Joanna Beth Harvelle. Dean was sure that she wasn’t going to be especially happy to see him, since his move had involved cutting off contact with everybody, including the girl herself. He was sure she’d taken it quite personally. Then, of course, there was the whole leaving-his-fiancé-in-the-dust thing, and Jo and Cas seemed to be on good terms, friends even. Shit, Dean was in the doghouse.

Jo made her way around the hall corner, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms, before lifting her head. Dean could see the way that her eyes first went to Cas, then dragged up to stare at Dean. Her jaw went a little slack, and Dean chanced a small wave, before realizing just how awkward it looked. He felt a sinking feeling as her brow creased, and she gave him a calculating look. It made Dean wish that Castiel were taller than him rather than shorter, which would’ve provided a much more adequate wall of defense from the look he was currently receiving. He breathed through his mouth in and out, in and out, in and out, before Jo spoke.

“Dean?” she said, voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Hey, Jo,” Dean said, and he could hear the trepidation that accompanied his soft tone. Jo took a step closer, and it took a lot of willpower for Dean not to step back in response.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and hell if that didn’t hurt. Cas walked through the doorway further into the house, keeping Dean’s jacket on his shoulders by gripping the lapel.

“Dean’s come for a visit,” Cas said, effectively saving Dean from the responsibility of having to answer such a loaded question. This only seemed to perplex Jo more, as her frown deepened and she shifted her weight so that her hip jutted out, looking like the epitome of a feisty youngster. Jo looked at Cas, then back at Dean, then to Cas once more, before letting out a huff of breath.

“Well,” she started, before turning to face Cas, moving her hands to her hips to stand akimbo. “I put John to bed early, the little guy was all tuckered out. Didn’t even have to read him a story. I didn’t know how long you were planning on being out, so I shut the windows, and watched a bit of TV. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Cas, still clutching the jacket in his fingers. “Jo, do you require a ride home? It’s gotten quite late.”

Jo shook her head absently, her eyes flicking over to Dean again. 

“Thanks, Cas, but I’ll be fine.” Cas nodded, heading down the blue hall towards the kitchen. Cas followed her, and as Dean stood rooted to the spot, he watched Jo turn the corner, Cas not far behind her. 

“Would you like to stay for a beer? I hear there’s a Chiefs game tonight, if you’d like to stay and watch,” Cas said, glancing over his shoulder, and Dean got the feeling that the invitation was as much for him as it was for Jo, and it made him want to sing a hallelujah to the heavens. Dean stepped all the way into the house, closing the door behind him and locking it for good measure. It was warmer in the house, and the heat was sweet relief from the autumn air. When Cas saw that Dean had come in, he disappeared into the kitchen, and the sound of bottles clinking told Dean that there was beer being extracted from the fridge.

“Dean, would you like a beer?” Cas called to him, albeit somewhat muffled by the wall between them. Dean wondered how Cas managed to be so hospitable even after everything.

“Yeah, please,” Dean said, and made his way towards the kitchen door, staring pointedly at the floor, for the pictures of Castiel and John smiling on the walls seemed to taunt him, their smiles something closer to leers. He can practically taste his own regret, for the air is saturated with it. Dean knew it was all his imagination, despite whatever nagging voice was having a field day toying with his head, winding his brain around its finger like twirling hair, but it didn’t stop him from picking up the pace as he gripped the edge of the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen. Sure enough, Cas – or Jo, perhaps – had set three beers on the kitchen counter, and Dean mourned the fact that he’d never gotten them an island, which was the one thing he might truly miss about the Palo Alto apartment. 

Dean picked a beer up off the table, and before he could open a drawer to look for a bottle opener, it was being pushed towards him by Jo, who refused to meet his eye. Dean picked it up nonetheless, hooking it under the bottle cap and popping it off. Setting the bottle opener back on the table, it was grabbed by Cas, who opened his own bottle, a look of determined concentration on his face. Dean took a moment to inspect the label on the bottle, making a noise between a whine and a snort at the unique name. 

“Bumblebeer?” Dean said, rolling his eyes, and he could faintly hear Jo’s snicker. Cas’s indignant huff accompanied the sound of a drawer sliding open, and the bottle opener being deposited back inside. 

“It’s quality,” Cas said, and Dean shook his head.

“It’s weird, that’s what it is. You and your hipster beer, I swear,” Dean said, and Cas turned to the living room, walking out of the kitchen and away from anybody who dared to criticize his taste. Dean was passed by a flash of blonde hair as Jo followed Cas’s lead, and Dean, still hesitant, took his time entering, lingering in the wide doorway separating the two rooms.

Jo had already grabbed a blanket off of the back of the couch, and had curled in the corner, resting her elbow on the armrest and her chin in her hand. Cas had occupied the middle of the couch, and picked up the remote, beginning to flip through channels on the TV until settling on the broadcast of the game. The house that was nearly silent before was all of a sudden full of life, the light of the television lighting up the faces of those before it, the colors flickering from greens to whites to blues as they flashed by on the screen, the sound of cheers and cries ringing through the air. Cas sat with his fist curled around the remote, eyes fixated on the screen, finger poised over the volume button. Dean was tentative as he treaded softly into the living room himself, and stood behind the couch, eyes lingering on the TV, though nothing that occurred on the screen registered completely with him.

Cas turned in his seat, looking up at Dean behind him, eyes kind in a way that made Dean’s heart flutter.

“You can sit, Dean,” he said, and Dean, exhaling long and soft as though the task of taking a seat was one that would require strenuous effort, made his way around the couch. The only unoccupied space was right next to Cas, and Dean sat as close to the edge as he could press himself, determined not to invade Cas’s personal space. It was difficult, because the man insisted on sitting with his legs folded next to him, curled up in a position that looked unnatural to the point of seeming almost painful. This left Dean pressed up against the arm of the couch, straining to keep his leg from touching Castiel’s. It felt like an invasion of privacy to even look at the man for too long, as Cas’s own gaze was focused on the television screen. 

Dean could practically hear his breath, the soft inhale and exhale through parted lips, as though he was enthralled in the game to the point where his consciousness was simply a mere side effect of existing. Dean had a hard time believing that it was the sport itself; Cas wasn’t usually one to care much about a couple of jocks throwing a ball around. The game was a distraction, a flashy light show that kept all of their minds of the elephant in the room. An elephant so large that it pressed against each wall, the pressure threatening a break in the resolve that was holding the three of them together. 

Dean flicked his eyes away from Cas, intent on joining him and Jo in their momentary oblivion. It was difficult, however, to focus all of his attention on the screen, mainly because the man sitting next to him was somehow more radiant that the screen casting image after image, blinding him in the dim light of the rest of the room. There were only so many glances that Dean could sneak before Cas would catch on to the fact that he was being watched, and so it went, for moments after the thought had occurred to Dean, he was being scrutinized by that... that _squint_ thing. 

“Dean?” Cas said, voiced hushed, though there was no need, seeing as the raucous coming from the television wouldn’t have been drowned out if Cas had instead chosen to shout. Dean nodded in response, trying to plaster on a reassuring face. 

“Yeah, Cas?” It was almost as if Cas could sense his discomfort, because the look on his face was nothing short of pitying.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Well, there it was. And no, Dean was very, very, not alright, because his ex-fiancé was so caring and forgiving and he had never beat himself up more over anything than he was in this moment. Dean cleared his throat and stood up from his place on the couch, palms smoothing over the thighs of his jeans, or perhaps just wiping the sweat that had accumulated there in his nervousness. 

“I’m just gonna-” Dean jerked a finger in the direction of the bathroom – the location of which he remember just as well as the garage – and lifted a hand in something that resembled a wave. “I’ll be back.” Cas nodded his understanding, and as Dean turned and began his march towards the bathroom, the whistle of a referee ringing in his ears, he could feel Jo’s eyes trained on him. 

Rounding the corner and jolting the handle of the bathroom door until it granted him entrance was the most relief he thought he’d ever felt, and as he shut the door behind him he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Bracing himself with two hands on either side of the sink, he looked at his own reflection, which at that moment revealed a very disheveled version of Dean. He was pathetic if he couldn’t sit next to the people from his past without turning into a sweaty mess.

“I don’t get it,” said a voice from the other room, and Dean lifted his head an inch, the revelation that he could hear the conversation coming from the other room valuable information. The voice sounded like Jo’s, and she continued, Dean listening intently, hands still pressed up against the counter. “I just don’t get it, Cas. You looked happy. Happier than I’ve seen you in a while. I thought you would’ve been, y’know, a little distraught, at least.” There was a low sigh, and Dean guessed that it came from Cas.

"He has the same old charm, and I seem determined to fall for it over and over and over again. I just wish I could let go, but it's clear to me now that I don't have that option. Not truly."

Dean’s heart felt like it was going to rip itself out of his chest at the rate it was beating. Cas thought he was _charming._

He wouldn’t have noticed the grin that spread across his face had he not seen it in the mirror directly in front of him. Sure enough, he was smiling wide, the fine lines around his mouth and eyes accentuated with the glee that was currently strewn across his features. He was _charming._ It almost sounded like Castiel was willing to give him a second chance, and that thought alone sent a surge of hope through him. A chance to redeem himself after everything, one that he wouldn’t fuck up this time around. Shit, if Cas was willing to let him, he would stick around, maybe even move back. He stopped to contemplate it. Could he move back? Obviously not back into the same house – it was too early for that – but back in the same neighborhood at first, perhaps. He could see his son every day if he wanted to.

Shit, John. The boy’d been on his mind all day, after all, one isn’t likely to stop thinking about their kid when they find out about their existence that very day. If Dean moved back, could they be the family he’d always thought of, the one he’d left without realizing? He knew they could work out the kinks in his and Cas’s relationship – and not the sexy kind, either. Cas seemed willing to forgive all, which was more than Dean could ever ask for, and he was confident that with that they could make it work.

He could make it work.

With that in mind, he pushed the door to the bathroom back open, made his way back into the living room, and reclaimed his seat on the couch. It was cold where he had left, and he shifted closer to press his shoulder up against Cas’s. When Cas cast him a look laced with confusion and surprise, Dean smiled back at him, turning his attention back to the television screen. Yeah, he would make this work. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!
> 
> Come chat on [Tumblr](https://pristinecas.tumblr.com)


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